


God Pity the Bush That Burns and Never Turns to Ash

by Livia_LeRynn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Experimental, Gen, Poetry, five Wives - Freeform, sketches in words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: Portraits of the five Wives plus Furiosa in five sentences each, plus a poem.  A wrote this a while back and just now decided it deserves to see the light of day.





	God Pity the Bush That Burns and Never Turns to Ash

The girl is a walking contradiction – hair like flame, eyes like water, a voice that floats like fog. She knows just when and how to touch a person. Her texture feels like acceptance, and her voice wraps around you, embracing you before her arms do. Your skin, that barrier between you and the world is softened. You feel just a little less shriveled. 

The girl is sharpness incarnate; she scans the land with cold eyes and sees hidden things. She cracks a joke and breaks you open. She solves you, pries apart your hidden mysteries and laughs at your discomfort. Her boney shoulders piece illusions, even her own jaded shell. She holds secrets in her palms and knows, one day, their shells will split from dark, moist soil.

The girl runs her fingers over the smooth casings. Then her hands smell metallic, like the iron in blood. She knows it well…. Like she knows many things… the feel of grit beneath her wheels, the feel of desolation beneath her feet. She knows the taste of hope turned rotten in the sun. She watches you quietly, her edges crisp, burnt, jaded. 

The girl stands before you, her lips spitting fire, her eyes fixed with purpose and passion. She proudly takes up space with her arms spread wide. She has the daring and pride of the once broken, once trampled, now made strong and bold. All ground shrinks and cracks before her sun. You crumble.

The girl is small, quiet, wise as a mouse who knows just when to hide in the crevices between stones. She bares her teeth; they shine polished white in the darkness. She wills you to be brave, and then you are. Then she stands, her fears painting her skin like powdered paint; she wears them without a crack. She is steady truth between wild heartbeats and frantic breaths. 

The girl is long lost and half forgotten. The crucible heat has made her steel. Her hand is sharp, and her eyes are steady. They remind you of something you used to know when you would run through fields of knee-high grass while the birds sang in the open sky. She rages like the dust that once was more.

I know the taste of fear,  
The texture of powerlessness.  
I’ve scanned my skin  
For marks, scars, bruises, evidence.  
I’ve drifted like a legend,  
Riding words over familiar ground,  
Leaving no trace or track.  
God pity the Bush that burns  
And never turns to ash.


End file.
